


believe me when i tell you that you are unlovable

by bareunloveliness



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Confrontations, F/M, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 04:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16758304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bareunloveliness/pseuds/bareunloveliness
Summary: Wendla invites Melchior for coffee to discuss the aftermath of the hayloft scene.





	believe me when i tell you that you are unlovable

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, this discusses rape! Please be aware of that before you start reading. Prompt by 'question mark', an anon on Tumblr.

"Our story was never meant to have a happy ending," he promised Wendla as he held her hand inside his as if he had to protect it, as if it was fragile porcelain.

She jerked it away, his touch lingering on her skin. "This isn't our story, it's mine." It was a difficult process, to learn how to be whole again. She was beginning to think that meeting with him wasn't the best way to get closure, although it seemed to be the only idea she had to achieve such an impossible goal. "You, unfortunately, happen to be a character."

"I thought you believed in God and shit," he said, twisting around her words. "Don't you believe there's a reason he put me in your life? Have you ever considered that I'm supposed to save you?" She wondered how much he believed what he was saying and how much of it was him consciously manipulating her, considering her beliefs and how to make them coincide with his reality.

"You're what I need saving from," she spat. "Are you seriously that blind?" He was a wolf, a monster, and she was the victim. No, she was the hero. That's what she would tell herself until she believed it.

He paused, looking around, trying desperately to pull inspiration from coffee mugs and distracted screenwriters. "Who convinced you that I'm some kind of devil? Was it Ilse?"

"She didn't convince me, she pointed out the truth." Wendla shifted her weight, adjusting the crossing of her legs. She hated that he could have guessed so easily that one conversation with Ilse made her see the light. Maybe Melchior wasn't a monster, maybe that's a strong word. Maybe he's morally grey. But seeing him as morally grey would never be able to help her heal. 

What kind of a girl invited the wolf that ate her for coffee?

The kind of girl that would arrive in a short blush pink dress without a single tear in her eye. The kind of girl that wrote affirming words on sticky notes around her house so she would get out of bed in the morning. The kind of girl that cried for hours and hours and decided that she shouldn't have been the one crying.

Wendla fucking Bergmann.

She was a woman. She wished she was still a girl, but at age fifteen, she sat across from Melchior as a woman. Red specks of acne dotted her chin and cheeks and she had a pencil case full of feathery pens in her backpack. She was a survivor, someone who had already grown before she was grown up. She saw the life that the world handed to her on a silver platter, put it on like a ball gown, and proceeded to dance.

"And the truth is that you raped me, Gabor." She did not dignify him with a first name. "I'm not going to yell or spit at you or make your life hell. Do you want to know why?"

"No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me," he inhaled, considering the differences between the girl at the hayloft and the woman before him. "So, why aren't you going to yell or spit at me or make my life hell, Wendla?"

As if he deserved to call her that.

"Because I know that the moment your sorry ass dies, Satan will do my job for me. He wouldn't want my earthly body to break a nail." She spoke like a goddess, like a poet from the 1800s who was diagnosed with hysteria, like someone who was very much over being a pawn in a man's game of chess. She was no longer a sacrifice, a phase, or a way for a man to grow and learn about himself. She was a human being and demanded to be treated as such.

It would be dishonorable to not recognize Ilse and Melitta's aid in helping her to understand all of this. They took her to marches and helped her meet with other survivors. They told her not to meet with him after he texted her a week prior. She ignored them. It was not a wise or enviable decision, nothing heroic that she should be praised for going against the advice of people who understood the world better than she. It was simply a choice that she had made.

Melchior bit his lip for a moment, eyes flickering between his americano and her blank stare. The emotions had fled from her face faster than the bullet could hit Moritz' head. She didn't have time to mourn over her friend. Thanks to Melchior, she had to mourn herself first. "So you invited me here to what, threaten me in the afterlife?"

"No, I invited you here because everyone told me not to," she admitted. "You see the thing about power and control is that I've never had any in my life. Nobody told me shit about anything. So when you said that we're not supposed to love, I kissed you. I thought I was taking control. I thought I had power. I thought that this was a choice I was making when you were using me. You knew that if I kissed you, the consent would turn from not there to dubious and you could release yourself from the shame and guilt of knowing that  _ you raped me _ ."

Melchior had nothing to say. He swallowed a long sip of his bitter coffee, letting it burn his throat for a second. "If that's how you see it, I'm sorry."

She smirked at the half-assed apology. "If that's what you consider taking responsibility for your actions, I'm sorry. You're pathetic, Melchi." She didn't mean to say the almost affectionate nickname, but it was impossible to erase years of friendship. No, it wasn't impossible, actually, but it was certainly going to be difficult. She had a support system of incredible young women and a therapist to help her through it. "I pity the next girl who ends up underneath you."

"Is that all?"

"No," Wendla said. "because truthfully, I pity you. Hitting or screaming or whatever isn't going to make me feel better. Subtle digs or tearing you apart isn't going to make me feel any better. Maybe that makes you happy; to tear others down. But it won't make me happy. I just want you to know that I will pray for you for the rest of my life. And- And I know that doesn't mean anything to you. You don't believe in prayer. You don't need to. I hope you learn what love is someday. Goodbye, Gabor."

Whether or not he had anything left to say, he didn't say anything else.

"Goodbye, Wendla."

**Author's Note:**

> Requests and/or comments can be written below or sent to my Tumblr @honeybeebecki.


End file.
